The Decameron puts a dishy, hilarious twist on classical lit

It’s safe to say we all remember 2020, when those of us who were able to lock ourselves in our homes, armed with surgical masks and Clorox wipes, to wait out the ravages of COVID-19. On couches everywhere, the world wondered: Was it better to hole up alone with only houseplants for company, or to share a space with roommates and/or loved ones who would keep you company but also drive you crazy? That all-too-familiar experience is the metatextual backdrop of Netflix’s The Decameron (out July 25), which follows a motley assemblage of 14th-century nobles and servants sheltering from the Black Death at a massive villa in the Florentine countryside.

Unless you studied classical lit in college, you’ve probably never read Giovanni Boccaccio’s short-story collection. But don’t be intimidated: Kathleen Jordan’s TV adaptation, which is very loosely based on its source material, is anything but stuffy and unapproachable. It’s a dishy, hilarious blast that’s by turns satirical, tender, savage, and existentially profound. Imagine mashing up the anachronistic comedy of Dickinson, the medieval brutality of Game Of Thrones, the horniness of Bridgerton, the upstairs-downstairs drama of Downton Abbey, the slapstick socialism of Monty Python And The Holy Grail, and the sadistic class warfare of Triangle of Sadness, and you’ll have a rough idea of what you’re in for.

An ensemble piece in the truest sense of the word, The Decameron is a dream for fans of character actors. The biggest names are Zosia Mamet and Tony Hale, but the show also boasts faves from beloved British and Irish series: Derry Girls’ Saoirse-Monica Jackson, Sex Education’s Tanya Reynolds, I Hate Suzie’s Leila Farzad, The Third Day’s Amar Chadha-Patel, EastEnders’ Jessica Plummer, I May Destroy You’s Karan Gill, and Slow Horses’ Dustin Demri-Burns.

If there is a protagonist, it’s Licisca (Reynolds), the maidservant of a spoiled noblewoman named Filomena (Plummer). As the two flee plague-ridden Firenze, Licisca pushes her mistress off a bridge and assumes her identity. (That isn’t the end for Filomena, though.) Their host at the Villa Santa is the even more spoiled Pampinea (Mamet), who’s come to meet her future husband, Leonardo, and claim her place as mistress of the estate—her loyal servant, Misia (Jackson), in tow. But she gets a nasty surprise when the villa’s longtime steward, Sirisco (Hale), informs her that her fiancé died of the pestilence before she arrived. Undeterred, the trio hatches a plan to conceal Leonardo’s death from the other guests.

Rounding out the motley crew are Tindaro (Douggie McMeekin), an entitled manchild, who, were he alive today, would definitely be a Reddit incel; his doctor, Dioneo (Chadha-Patel), gifted with rippling pecs straight out of a Harlequin romance; the charming, calculating Panfilo (Gill) and his pious wife, Neifile (Lou Gala); and Stratilia (Farzad), the villa’s no-nonsense cook—and the only rational person in the place.

We won’t spoil any of the ensuing chaos here. There’s no pleasure like gasping at the soap-operatic reveal of a secret relative, unlikely romance, or stunning betrayal—and The Decameron is stuffed full of them. We will tell you to expect plenty of power shifts, farcical misunderstandings, and sex. Seriously, there’s so much sex. 

Jordan’s dialogue is by turns belly-laugh hilarious (Dioneo diagnoses Tindaro with “a case of chest vexation combined with acute fool’s face”) and devastatingly real, as the bodies pile up and the boundaries between master and servant crumble. (One character’s description of the agony of love hit me right in the chest.) Stylistically, The Decameron blends medieval and modern aesthetics in a way that feels wholly unique. Lavish, period-specific costumes and interiors go cheek and jowl with an ’80s soundtrack that includes tracks from the Pixies, Sparks, Depeche Mode, and Enya. 

But it’s the cast that makes The Decameron sing. Mamet is the perfect choice to play the mistress of ceremonies; her Pampinea is a riff on Shoshanna from Girls, driving home the idea that the modern class divide isn’t all that different from the 1340s. As Misia, Jackson evokes the slapstick physicality and exaggerated expressions of a silent-film comedian. And she’s also heartbreaking when Misia comes to realize just how toxic her relationship with Pampinea is.

Meanwhile, Hale is having the time of his life as Sirisco, whose manic optimism slowly disintegrates under the weight of despair and unrequited lust. (If he gets an Emmy nom for this role, I certainly hope he shows up with a white goose tucked under his arm.) Gill brings a surprising soulfulness to the proceedings as Panfilo comes to realize that no amount of scheming will hold mortality at bay. McMeekin manages to make us root for Tindaro despite the fact that he’s a sniveling little worm boy (no easy feat). And in Farzad’s capable hands, Stratilia is both the straight woman in a house full of buffoons and a giddy maniac in her own right. 

But the story lives and dies on the shoulders of Reynolds in (what should be) her breakout role. Licisca moves through life like a living Gumby, all big eyes and gangly limbs. She speaks volumes without saying a word, whether she’s nervously chewing on her hair or struggling into a silk gown. As played by Reynolds, Licisca is an incredibly complex character; though she has a tendency toward careless sadism, you understand where she’s coming from. (Let’s face it: Being a medieval peasant blows chunks.)

Though The Decameron is consistently unpredictable and full of dramatic twists, the story never feels manufactured or manipulative. It’s also surprisingly human, allowing even the most odious characters to grow and the most upstanding ones to degrade. These people may be over the top—and not just because they wear hats the size of a small dog—but when all is said and done, they’re just that: people.

We know from our own 21st-century plague that when you’re going mad from boredom while ambulance sirens wail past on the street below, there’s no divide between hilarity and horror, grief and elation. And when the storm has passed, no one makes it out without having been utterly transformed (if they make it out at all). The Decameron evokes the euphoric insanity of living through “interesting times,” when annihilation stalks around every corner. Hell may be other people, but they’re also the only thing keeping us from burning alive. 

The Decameron premieres July 25 on Netflix